


True North

by octobersymphony



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Evolution of a relationship, Fluff and Smut, Introspection, Kitchen Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2689244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octobersymphony/pseuds/octobersymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He used to be content with whatever Mark gave him, whatever little stolen, hurried moments they could get, but lately, he feels himself wanting more and more, wanting <i>everything</i>, wanting so much that he thinks it should probably scare him a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True North

**Author's Note:**

> First Formula 1 fic in two and a half years, yay! There are some fandoms you never really leave behind...

It's different now that Mark has turned his back on Formula 1.

This thing between them used to be easy, convenient. A dozen and a half race weekends a year, plenty of time spent together. Run-ins in the paddock, friendly slaps on the shoulder, shared dinners, catching a lift to the airport together late on Sunday nights. Sneaking in and out of each other's hotel rooms, rarely ever more than a couple of corridors away. 

Jenson remembers a Saturday morning in Imola a few years ago. He was just closing the door behind him as Fernando was on his way out to get breakfast; Fernando looked up and caught Jenson in yesterday’s clothes, slipping out of a room that wasn't his own. He remembers the sudden rush of adrenaline, like going into _Rivazza_ too fast and feeling the rear of his car slip, the excuses on his tongue that all seemed too flimsy and too telling to voice. Fernando just lifted an amused eyebrow and said "good morning", and neither of them ever mentioned it again.

He tried to put a stop to it, after that. He tried to put a stop to it about a million times over the past twelve years. He lost count of how many times he said, "We can't do this anymore" or any variation thereof. Said it and meant it. 

His resolve never lasted for longer than the next race, and then there they were again: in another hotel room in a different country, with Mark's body stretched out on top of him, his weight pressing him down into the mattress. Mark's mouth at his neck. Long, strong fingers wrapped firmly around his wrists, a hint shy of being tight enough to leave bruises. Mark's dick inside him, fucking into him steadily – agonizingly slowly at times, and at other times, when Mark was having a bad weekend and needed to get out of his head, fast and hard and with too little prep. Jenson loved it. 

Loved it when Mark came to him after celebrating a victory, smelling like champagne but tasting of beer, not even getting far enough into the room to make it to the bed, just crowding him against the door, wrapping Jenson's legs around his waist and taking him right there. Loved knowing that, when things took a downward turn, Jenson was the one Mark sought out to work off his frustration, the only one who got to see him broken and angry and defeated. After that horrible mess that was Malaysia last year, he hugged Mark at dinner in the hotel restaurant, surrounded by team members and journalists – a friendly show of support between mates – and he relished in the exhilarating feeling of Mark's grip a little too tight around his waist, promising a night that would leave Jenson exhausted and bruised.

Now the race weekends stretch, tedious and too long. A progression of rental cars, hotels, race tracks, and frustrating, boring debriefings. When he's out on the track, it's as good as ever, even when the car's shite: the rush, the joy, the sense of freedom. It's the moments in between that he stopped enjoying, and he's honest enough to admit that at least part of it is because Mark's not there to enjoy them with him anymore.

He didn't really acknowledge it until Austria, when Mark was back in the paddock and it was just like it used to be. He woke up on Sunday morning with a warm body against his back and realized for the first time that maybe this was more than he'd thought it was, more than just two buddies getting off together.

"I miss you," he told Mark, trying to distract from the weight of his words by pushing off the sheets and sliding down, wrapping his lips around Mark's morning wood, letting the familiar weight of it on his tongue and the bitter-salty taste of precome in his mouth drown out the pounding of his heart.

Mark's hand was in his hair, not pushing, just lightly letting his fingers rest against his scalp. 

"I'm not out of the world. Not like you can't afford a return flight." His voice was a little rough, more than the blowjob warranted.

 _Easy_ and _convenient_ went right out of the window about then. 

Now it's making time between race weekends and sponsor events, itineraries mailed back and forth; long-distance calls that are mostly casual banter with everything important remaining unspoken but easily enough decipherable between the words if you knew what to look for. Now there's a drawer in Mark's bedroom that has more of Jenson's clothes than he cares to admit because he likes to travel light and, even though he knows that Mark gets a kick out of him wearing his shit, there's only so many shirts he can borrow and never give back.

No more early morning walks of shame either, no more furtive glances to make sure no one else witnesses him leaving a hotel room he should never have been allowed access to in the first place. They sleep in until Mark, depending on his mood, wakes him either with a blowjob or by pulling the sheets off and telling him to get his ass out of bed and join him on a morning run. 

Afterwards, Mark spreads him out on the bed and works him over with his hands and his mouth until Jenson's _wrecked_ , more exhausted than after doing a triathlon and brimming with enough tension to rival the warm-up lap before the start of a race. His cock is hard, leaking. "Come on," Jenson gasps, trying to reach for Mark, who keeps an entirely unnecessary amount of empty space between them just to drive Jenson crazy.

His smile is wicked and blindingly bright. "Patience, mate. My house, my rules."

Whatever snappy comeback is on Jenson's lips dies when Mark bends down at last, drowning out everything else with the sensation of skin against skin.

They fuck unhurried, leisured, taking their time and enjoying the privacy of Mark's home. Jenson lets himself be as loud as he likes, allowing Mark to wrench all those broken sounds from him that he used to hold back for fear of thin hotel walls and intimacy so strong that it might crush him. Mark's name, over and over and over again until his throat is raw and his voice barely sounds like his own.

The smell of bacon and coffee wakes him for a late breakfast, and when he walks into the kitchen, the picture Mark makes standing at the stove is startlingly domestic. It's the kind of thing that used to trigger a fight-or-flight response when his girlfriends did it in the past. Now, here, it only makes his lips twitch into a fond smile. "You'll make a good housewife one day when you're finally retired, old man," he teases.

Mark retaliates by bending him over the counter, the edges digging uncomfortably into Jenson's hip. "I'll show you old," he shoots back, clearly aiming for stern and admonishing but unable to quite keep the laughter out of his voice.

He breaches Jenson torturously slowly, and Jenson can't refrain from pushing back, no more patient than he was earlier that morning, or the night before, or last month. Less so, maybe. He used to be content with whatever Mark gave him, whatever little stolen, hurried moments they could get, but lately, he feels himself wanting more and more, wanting _everything_ , wanting so much that he thinks it should probably scare him a little. 

He lets his forehead drop against the cabinet where Mark keeps his cereals. 

"I love you." He says it because he feels like it, and because it's true. Has been true for a while now, probably for a long time before he even thought about it in those terms. 

Mark's lips settle against the nape of his neck, leaving a wet trail, and when he reaches around and wraps his hand around Jenson's cock, that's enough to send Jenson into his climax, his come leaving white streaks on the polished wooden surfaces of Mark's kitchen.

"You know that only counts when you're not two seconds away from coming." Mark speaks the words against his sweat-damp, flushed skin, not an inch of space between their bodies.

Jenson smiles. Mark won't be able to see it, but he can probably hear it in his voice anyway. "Yeah, well, between now and this morning, there's not a chance for a repeat performance anytime soon, much less in the next two seconds, and it's still true."

Mark pulls back a little before driving into him again, not quite as easily now that Jenson's already come, making him gasp. "Do you need me to finish before I say it back?"

Jenson lets loose a soft little laugh. "I need you to finish so we can have breakfast. I'm starving." 

He doesn't really need the reassurance. He's sure of Mark. He's sure of them. He might only really realize this now, but when he looks back – back to not-quite-casual touches in dark hotel rooms and frantic kisses in motorhomes and Mark's possessive hand on his knee during the driver's photo last year – he thinks Mark has probably known it for some time now. It just took Jenson a while to catch up.

End.


End file.
